The Silver Lord. Miranda Jarrett
wet chill made her cheeks ache and her eyes tear, and plastered the few loose curls of her hair like clammy seaweed against her forehead and neck.
Yet still she and Bob Forbert waited on the beach, steadfastly staring out into the fog to where the little boat must be, squinting so hard to see what Fan prayed would be there that her exhausted eyes teared from the effort. Except for those careful few who knew the truth, no one would guess her place by day at Feversham Hall, or understand the risk she took by coming here on this night, and on scores of others like it.
Furtively she puffed her breath against the rough wool of the scarf pulled over her mouth, hoping to warm herself however she could, and twisted the reins in her cold-numbed fingers. It was a perfect night for their trade, exactly the weather she always prayed for. A fog like this kept secrets as surely as the grave itself.
But how long had she been standing here by the sea, the spray that blew towards them like tumbled flakes of snow? Had it been one hour, two, even three? She could reach for the heavy watch she wore at her waist, but to do so would make her look weak and unsure of herself, as if she hadn’t planned and anticipated every last detail of this night. She couldn’t let Bob sense her uncertainty. She couldn’t let him, or any of the others, ever see her be less than absolutely confident.
But hadn’t Father taught her that, never to show doubt to those who depended upon her? These folk are our people, Father would say, his black brows bristling with seriousness, these are the Winslow Company. They’re our responsibility, and you must be ready to put them first. That’s how it’s always been for us Winslows, daughter. We must be brave, be sure, be true. We must, my girl, else we’ll never hold their respect and their loyalty, nor shall we deserve it.
But then Father would never have imagined her in his place here on the beach, waiting with the lantern and pistols and praying that she’d said the right things to make the men follow….
“Leastways they’ll be no red coats after us tonight, mistress,” said Bob, spitting in the sand as an extra measure of contempt. “Nor blue Navy ones, neither. None of them bastards’d take their fat rumps from the hearth in this cold.”
“They’re all fair-weather rogues, true enough,” said Fan. “Let them stay by their hearths, I say, and leave us honest folk to ourselves.”
It had been a warm, clear night early last summer, the air full of the sweet scent of hay and new clover, when Father had let a bellyful of unwatered French brandy at the Tarry Man in Tunford rob him of his common sense. Off he’d stumbled towards the marshes and the beach with his old friend Tom Hawkins, the pair of them bellowing wicked songs about the king beneath the bright crescent moon, certain that there’d be a boat coming in from Boulougne.
And to her sorrow, it was the last she or anyone else had seen of either her father or Tom. Some said they’d drowned and been washed out to sea. Others were sure they’d been murdered, shot dead and their bodies hidden away by some rival company. There was even one version, still popular at the Tarry Man, that they’d simply hopped aboard some vessel for France on a whim, and were there now, drinking their fill of brandy and chasing the ladies and blithely turning their backs on their old lives.
Yet the stories were no more than guesses, without any proof one way or the other. All that Fan knew for certain was that her father had never come back, and that she missed him dreadfully, and that ever since that night, she’d been standing here in his place, waiting and hoping and praying for his return.
“There, mistress, there be the boat!” exclaimed Bob, pointing out through the fog. “Just like you said it would be, mistress! Just like you said!”
Fan nodded again, hiding her relief. She hadn’t been nearly as certain that Ned Markham would risk bringing the Sally in on such a night, but now she could see the bobbing yellow light on the sloop’s prow for herself. The pattern of the signal was the same they’d always used: one quick flash, two slow.
Fan leaned forward to uncover the face of her own lantern, and answered the signal in reverse with two slow flashes, one quick. Then, at last, Fan uncovered her flame and let the beam shine bright and steady, a kind of makeshift lighthouse here on the beach. The Sally’s pilot would need such a signal, for without the lantern’s light, he’d have the devil of a time guessing exactly where lay the mouth of the narrow channel called the Tunford Stream.
On the far side of the dunes the others were waiting, the trusted Company men with the horses, as well as the porters and carriers hired for the night. They all would work together with the Sally’s crew in well-practiced efficiency, bringing seven hundred pounds of China tea ashore without paying a single penny to the Customs House or the Crown.
She watched the boat drawing close, the sail just visible through the mist and fog. The tedium of waiting here on the beach was nearly done, and the next few hours would fly by, a race against the dawn. If everything went as planned, she would see the last pony, laden with tea, off over the hills before the night began to fade on the eastern horizon, and be back at Feversham with the cock’s crow, and so weary she’d barely be able to climb the back stairs to her bed.
“Who be takin’ our tea this time, mistress?” asked Bob, hopping up and down beside her with excitement, or maybe the cold. “The innkeeper in Lydd, same as last week, or that new bloke clear from London?”
“Hush yourself, Bob,” ordered Fan sharply, appalled he’d speak so freely. “Haven’t I told you before to keep your peace about our affairs here?”
“But mistress, I—”
“No chatter, Bob, not even to me,” she answered, cutting him off. “Or is that the path you’re wishing to take, Bob Forbert? Betraying us all with your idle guesses and follies?”
“Nay, mistress,” said Bob, anxiously wringing his hands in their fingerless gloves. “Nay, mistress, not by half.”
“Not by halves nor wholes nor quarters, either,” said Fan. “If you wish to share the Company’s profits, then you must abide by our rules.”
“’Course I shall, mistress!” cried Bob defensively. “I’ve my family to feed, mistress! I’m not like you with only yourself to look after!”
That hurt; that hurt, but since it was the truth, what could Fan say? “Off with you, Bob,” she said, hiding her bitterness, “and tell the others the Sally’s nigh. I’ll follow on my own, as soon as I’m sure they’ve followed the lantern.”
At once the man turned his pony and trotted away across the sand, while Pie whinnied and shifted restlessly, eager to be off as well. Swiftly Fan drew the pony in, wondering unhappily if Bob’s haste was because he was trying to prove his loyalty, or if he simply wished to be away from her criticism.
She’d heard what some of the men in the Company said behind her back, how since her father had disappeared, she’d become sharp-tongued and hard, the worst kind of shrill spinster. It didn’t matter that the Company had continued to prosper under her leadership, or that the runs were planned with greater efficiency now, or even that their profits had grown while the government’s patrols had increased along the coast with the end of the war. All they had to grumble over was the trial of taking orders from a leader in petticoats, even if she was Joss Winslow’s daughter. She didn’t want to consider how much longer they would listen to her, or what she would do if they stopped altogether.
But because Father would wish it, she’d done her best to hold the Winslow Company together, taking each day and night as it came. Whether with the Company or in her place at Feversham, she’d always taken pride in being a hard worker, in doing things the proper way.
Yet now nothing seemed right or proper in her life. Ever since last summer, she’d exactly the same feeling as she had standing on this beach tonight: empty and cold and joyless, and absolutely, completely alone.
Chapter Two
Always prepare for the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed.
This was hardly